Miseries of the Hood
by KatHarkness-Katara
Summary: A condemned man gets a visitor on the eve of his execution. What is he really scared of? Three-shot. No slash, not a deathfic. Rated for mild language, violent themes, gruesome imagery.
1. Chapter 1

**AN: The dialogue includes both French and English, so for the most part is written in English. French is in italics. Un-beta'd, possible spelling/grammar/punctuation errors. Please read and review. Any questions, leave a review or drop me a PM.**

**Miseries of the Hood Part 1**

Monseigneur Bienvenu would never become weary of his works. And yet he found it more troubling than he would care to admit that he was once again called to minister to a condemned man's last night on the earth.

And this man, well, that was another story. His trial had been rushed, and hardly what one would call fair, spurred on by the twin facts of seeming overwhelming proof of guilt and refusal to say anything, even give his name, save that he was innocent. The courts, ever eager to avenge a murder, did not waste any time in sending him to the guillotine.

The guards let him into the cell. The prisoner had his back to the door, leaning his arms on the small barred window that gave but a little light, and a good view of the scaffold. Immediately, the truth surrounding the prisoner's oddities was, at least partly, confirmed. His attire was a suit that hugged his skin like hose, but much thicker, and stretching from his ankles to his wrists to his neck. His feet were clad in heavy boots, and his black hair was short but unruly.

"_Hey, Red!_" one of the guards called to him. "_The Bishop's here for you, so be nice!_" The man did not stir, and Bienvenu wondered were the nickname came from; his hair was not ginger. He muttered something that sounded like, "cough". The guard stormed into the room, and grabbed his prisoner roughly by the shoulder. In the blink of an eye, the guard was on the ground, the prisoner kneeling on his back and his arms pinned. The other guard ran up and prodded him in the ribs with the nose of his rifle.

The prisoner retreated warily, and now Bienvenu could clearly see the stylized red bat on his chest, and the crimson piece of cloth across his brow, strange white circles hiding his eyes. He also seemed younger than rumour had him; sixteen, seventeen, possibly eighteen or nineteen summers, no older. He moved as gracefully as the dancers in an opera he'd once been taken to see, but his every move screamed danger. It was no surprise why he was so quickly thought capable of murder.

"_Peace, my son,_" Bienvenu said. He gestured for the guards to leave, then sat down on the thin straw pallet, and patted it invitingly. The young man instead sank down, leaning against the wall opposite and drawing his knees up to his chest. "_My name's Myriel,_" he continued. "_But the people call me Monseigneur Bienvenu._"

The young man (really, scarcely more than a boy) cocked his head to one side. "'Sir Welcome'?" he said, not in French, but in English.

"_You're all the way from England? Would you like me to speak your language?_" If his French was poor, it would explain his reticence.

He shook his head. "_America, actually. I have no great difficulty with French. I am fluent._"

Indeed, it was impeccable. "_What brings you to France?_"

"_You wouldn't believe me if I told you._"

"_Is that so? The ways of the Lord are mysterious; what man can fathom the works of his hand?_"

A semi-derisive snort. "Not me, anyway."

Bienvenu chose to ignore the comment; the language switch indicated it wasn't for him to hear anyway. "_What's your name, son?_" he asked. "_You never gave it; you must have one._"

The young man chuckled wryly. "_A couple. One, I can't tell you. Another I lost, and someone else took it. A few nicknames, and a name that means nothing to you._"

"_Then tell me a nickname, if you cannot, or will not, give your real name._"

He considered it. Bienvenu was half-expecting him to refuse, when he said quietly, "_Little Wing. My brothers call me Little Wing._" He must have caught Bienvenu's slight confusion, for he continued. "_I was younger when I picked that one up. It stuck. You know childhood nicknames…_"

"_You have brothers? A large family?_"

"_Yes and no. My first family, Dad left me and Mom, and then Mom died. Turns out she wasn't really my mother anyway, but I thought she was._" He pulled a thin chain from beneath his shirt and pointed to a slim gold wedding ring. "_That was hers. When I found out Dad had been killed, I didn't bother getting his. No reason to. I don't miss him._"

Bienvenu pointed to the other pendant. "_What's that one?_"

"_That's for my new family. We all wear these. I have a new father, three brothers, one sister. Don't always get on, but we're family._"

Bienvenu smiled slightly. It sounded like he cared for them, and now they'd be losing a son, a brother. "_Do you want me to contact them, tell them what happened?_"

Wing shook his head. "_They're coming for me anyway. Just hope they're not too late…_" His voice tailed off, as he glanced to the window with its square of darkening sky, and view of the scaffold.

Dismissing the suggestion that the prisoner was trying to avoid his punishment, Bienvenu asked, "_So you are afraid to die?_"

He snorted. "Been there, done that, got the bloody white streak to prove it," he muttered angrily. At his wild gesture to his forehead, Bienvenu looked closer. Indeed, at the forefront of his hair, a single lock stood out, white but covered in grime.

"_I don't understand,_" he said, for how could he have 'been there, done that' with death? And what did the pale lock prove?

"_The…phrasing…doesn't translate very well. There was one other time I was killed. And then brought back._" It sounded incredible, almost impossible, but there was something honest in the way he spoke simply, staring at the floor.

"_It hurt worse than anything you can imagine,_" Wing continued. "_The actual dying was no rose bed. This guy beat me half to death with a metal bar, then smashed a warehouse on top of me. I read the post mortem, one time I was feeling morbidly curious. Two thirds of my ribs fractured; half smashed, piercing my lungs. Every limb broken at least once. Cracked skull. Multiple internal injuries. Of course I felt all that. After the warehouse blew, I blacked out. Came round again, just as…Dad, found me. I think he tried asking me to stay alive, but I can't remember too clearly. It's fuzzy; all full of the feel of the blood filling my lungs. Then I closed my eyes and stopped breathing._" He stopped for a moment. His breathing was laboured, as though he was going through the same experience of punctured lungs. Eventually he caught his breath and resumed his narrative. "_It was dark, and cool, and so quiet. Nothing hurt; it was like floating underwater, but no pressure to breathe. A second could have been years, or a century as a minute. It was peaceful. And then I was yanked out, stuffed into a body again. Every nerve on fire, every sensation agony. The strain of living again warped my mind, and left its mark in bleaching my forelock. It was some time before my family snapped me back to my senses. They've been…more forgiving than I deserve._" He looked up again, a slight smile gracing his lips. "_My older brother, he's…_oh, what's the word?" He frowned, then snapped his fingers. "L'oiseau d'or de papa. _Daddy's golden bird. He's been incredibly dedicated to keeping us together. And he'll probably bring me home even if he has to scrape up _sidewalk pizza." Bienvenu frowned; the last two words were nonsense. Wing noticed his confusion. "_It's what we call the result when you fall about, oh, forty feet onto hard stone. Not pretty._"

"_You think you're going to live, even if you are resurrected again,_" Bienvenu gasped.

"_I don't know if I can go through it again. The…process…can be a bit dodgy. We only have one example of it being used on the same person more than once. It's not a nice example to follow. Gold Bird would try, though. He'd consider the risk worth it. That's what's scaring me most._" He leaned back. "_I don't even know why I'm telling you all this._"

"_You need to tell someone._" A few minutes passed in silence, before Bienvenu asked another question. "_Why did you kill the man?_"

"_I didn't. I had no reason to kill anyone this time._"

"_This time? You have killed before?_"

"_A few times. Only when it did more good to permanently remove the person than to risk them in court._"

"_Why? What did these people do that made them such a threat?_"

"_Most of them were selling drugs to children. You know drugs? Substances that make you feel great, for a moment. Then you need more. 'Course, it costs something ridiculous. And you can't just stop. Usually, you get poisoned sooner or later, if you don't have an accident, or take too much at once, or get locked up for stealing to feed the habit. And these dealers were sucking children, kids younger than fifteen, into that torment-filled life._" He looked away. "_It was drugs that killed Mom. Dad left because he couldn't deal. Didn't bother ever checking up on us. I ended up on the streets, fending for myself. If I hadn't got picked up by my new family, I might have ended up on drugs myself, just to forget that I had no future._"

"_Life is often so much harder than the law's men understand,_" Bienvenu sighed. "_You said you killed 'a few times'?"_

"_My father doesn't approve. So I stopped. We argued a lot, but reached an understanding. I try to do things his way now. No killing._"

"_You changed your ways for your father's sake?_" Bienvenu chuckled.

"_Guess you could say that, yeah,_" Wing replied dryly. "_I'm not lapsing any time soon. Not even to escape that guillotine._"


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: Second part. A third will arrive sometime soon. Again, English speech is written normally, French in italics. Please read and review.**

**Miseries of the Hood Part 2**

It was dawn. Monseigneur Bienvenu watched the sun start to peek through the barred window, the prisoner he was ministering to unable to watch. They'd talked the whole night; and Bienvenu had been surprised at the young man's religious convictions. He had no opinion on whether or not God existed, but thought that if He did, He didn't care. This despite having, apparently, died and been resurrected. They'd discussed second chances, and seeming impossible phenomena (of which Little Wing had many, many examples), and the flourishing of evil. Eventually Wing dozed off, still leaning against the wall, and Bienvenu prayed earnestly that the troubled young man would find the God of love and grace within his heart before the end.

Or else he'd be right, and his brothers would come for him and either save him from the scaffold, or resurrect him again. Officially, a bishop had to stand for law and order, justice and the courts, but he'd seen the guillotine at work before, and _there must be a better way_. And why would any man go to his death still denying a charge, unless he really was innocent?

The guards came in, and wrapped chains around Wing's wrists. He was starting to look slightly sick; the rifles poking him clearly making him wary of trying to free himself. He might have complete confidence in his imminent salvation (pre- or post-mortem), but he also seemed to want to avoid the possibility of death from as long as possible. Bienvenu supposed he'd become a little more hostile when they tried to make him lie on the scaffold.

Wing was dragged out into the sunlight. The square was filled with townsfolk; all eager to see a killer get justice. The scaffold stood tall and erect on a raised platform, a basket already waiting beneath the blade. Bienvenu tried to murmur words of comfort to the young man, but Wing didn't seem to hear. He was led onto the platform, and the magistrate asked if he had any last words. Wing jerked his head from side to side, and tensed even further.

And with a sickening _shunk!_ the blade came down. Everyone jerked back; a premature release should not have happened. Bienvenu spotted what looked like a strangely shaped metal shard embedded in the wood, at just such a place to have severed the guillotine's rope.

Wing had also seen it. The tension seemed to flood out of his body. He relaxed, the strain he'd been holding in all night released with the execution blade. "You took your sweet time," he called out in English.

A wry laugh danced across the silent, shocked crowd. "Finding fault? What, am I too early?" The other speaker was also using English, the strange accent the same as the condemned's. Bienvenu looked around, and saw, in the shadow of the Town Hall, another young man, a few years older, but dressed in a suit of the same outlandish material cut. But rather than black with a red bat on the chest, his was black with stylized wings across the chest and stripes reaching down to the tips of his middle and ring fingers. He was also masked; his plain black but with extra flares at the edge.

Wing huffed. "Gold Bird, you must be the most infuriating person to ever live," he said, but with a tint of affection colouring the words. That, and the nickname, confirmed Bienvenu's suspicion: this was the older brother who'd do anything to bring him home.

"Really? Thought that was Booster," the other remarked. He shifted, and now it could be seen that, cast over his shoulder, his left hand held what appeared to be a remarkably bulky jacket of a different black fabric.

Wing considered his brother's words. "Possibly. Chuck an acid, would you?" He jerked his wrists, the chains clinking slightly.

Gold Bird touched a hand to his waist, then threw something small over the heads of the crowd. Wing caught it in his manacled hand, and it was a little bottle. He flicked the cap open (it seemed to be on a sort of hinge) and dripped the contents onto the chain around his wrist.

"What are they executing you for, anyway?" Gold asked.

"Murder," Wing grunted. The chain hissed, and melted away where the liquid touched it.

"But you were doing so well," Gold sighed, disappointment evident in his voice.

"What makes you think I did it?" Wing growled, dripping more liquid on the other restraint.

"You didn't? Oh good. Who did?"

"Dunno. Some bandit, or whatever you call gangbangers in the forests." He shook his wrists and the chains fell off. The guards, recovered from the shock, levelled their rifles at him. He ducked, and both men yelped. Metal shards had embedded themselves in their hands, causing them to drop the rifles. From his crouch, Wing swept his leg out, knocking them down. He pulled the shards from the men's flesh and stood upright. "Gonna give me my gear back or not?" he asked.

Gold emerged from the shadows, the whispering, muttering crowd parting before him. He bounded across the square and jumped up onto the platform. He pulled a belt from where it had been folded and tucked into his own, and Wing cinched it around his own waist. He reached out to the jacket, which it seemed had been covering a red metallic…something. Something round, slightly larger than a head.

He pulled the jacket on, and Gold laid a hand on his shoulder. "I'm glad you're okay, little brother," he said softly. Wing bowed his head slightly in gentle acknowledgement.

"Nightwing! Red Hood! We've got trouble!"

The two looked round at the speaker. At the entrance to the square, two boys stood, outlandishly dressed in red and black. The older had a harness across his chest connected to a collection of metallic strips hanging from his back, and the younger had a yellow cloak fastened at his throat. Bienvenu remembered Wing claiming three brothers, and knew he now saw the other two.

"What happened, Red Robin?" the older of the two on the stage asked.

"We saw this bunch of guys," the older boy replied. "Kinda reminded me of Robin Hood's Merry Men, but with rifles. We heard 'em talking; they're going to attack."

"What did they say, exactly?"

"'_Let's teach those fools to think some nobody did what we do; but we might as well let them execute the no-one first. Just to rub it in.'_" the boy repeated in French.

The older young man hissed slightly, shaking his head in irritation. "I take it they're on their way now?" Red Robin nodded. "Right. Red, rooftop. When they're all in here, drop down and cut of their retreat. Hood, stay here. Disarm any with long range weapons." Wing grabbed the red thing from him, and pulled it over his head. It looked like the head piece from an iron maiden, but no doubt without spikes. He also pulled two pistols from the pockets of his jacket. Meanwhile, Red Robin leaped into the air, and thrust his arms out, so the strips on his back turned into wings, and he soared up like a bird, landing on the roof of the Town Hall.

Gold Bird (Nightwing?) looked around, concerned and confused. "Need to evacuate the civilians," he muttered. "Won't listen to us; can't guarantee their safety in an all-out fight…"

Bienvenu stepped forwards. "Might I help you, sir?" he said. Nightwing glanced over at Wing/Hood, who nodded curtly, then back at Bienvenu, his head tipped quizzically. "You wanted the people gone?" Bienvenu continued.

"Yes." Nightwing's voice was flat and serious. "There's going to be a fight. We're good, but there's only so much we can do to prevent a blood bath."

"Then allow me." Bienvenu stepped forward, to the edge of the scaffold's stage, and addressed the crowd. "_My good brothers and sisters, you came to see a man receive justice. But it seems men of a different sort are come to celebrate the guillotine in a rather different manner. It would be most prudent to return to your homes._" He paused, assessing the mood. "_Please, take this warning to heart. These men and boys would stand between you and death, but they cannot guard all of you. I pray, leave now, before you see blood spilled from your own bodies._"

The crowd muttered, but started to disperse. Nightwing yanked out the metal shard that had severed the guillotine's rope, then hopped down from the stage. "Robin, there," he gestured, to one side of the direct passage from the town outskirts to the square. He pulled two foot long sticks from holsters in the small of his back and headed to the other side from his youngest brother. "On my mark," he called.

Bienvenu watched, standing next to the scaffold, in the faith that the bandits would recognise him as a man of the cloth and act accordingly. The boy on the roof was completely hidden from sight. Nightwing and young Robin were crouched in ready positions on either side of the street. Hood was still on the stage, playing with his guns. The people had mostly dispersed; the two guards Hood had knocked down earlier apparently unconscious.

A shrill whistle pierced the air. At once, the three fighters in sight tensed. From the street their came a dozen bandits, most armed with rifles. They streamed into the square, stopping in confusion at its near-emptiness. Bienvenu kept his eyes on Nightwing, crouched in the shadows and passed unnoticed. Waiting for the right moment.

It came. "Now!" he cried, and the fight began.


	3. Chapter 3

**AN: Here is the conclusion to the story. As before, French speech is written in English, in italics. Please leave a review when you finish, and if you have any questions about anything, drop me a PM or leave a review. This part makes references to the Return of Bruce Wayne storyline, so if you want more information, ask me.**

**Miseries of the Hood Part 3**

Watching the four boys fight was like watching a graceful dance, exquisitely choreographed to let them move around the blows and leave their enemies in the dust. A beautiful, elegant, vicious dance.

Red Hood, up on the stage, was drawing fire. He used the scaffold as cover, shooting quickly and accurately, the hail of bullets decreasing. When the bandit gang had lost all their rifles, he jumped down and joined his brothers in hand-to-hand combat.

Nightwing and Robin had gone straight into the middle of the pack, initially lunging low to avoid the rifle fire, then letting Hood deal with the bullets. Nightwing favoured a style of flips and somersaults, using a pair of cudgels to increase his reach and the strength of his hit. Robin was less showy, a somehow more brutal movement. Despite his youth, he was just as good at the dance.

Red Robin had dropped off the roof behind the gang, a long thin staff in his hands. His mode of fighting was a middle ground between Nightwing's extravagant aerialism and Robin's grounded efficiency. True to his position, he did not allow any retreat.

"So," Hood said conversationally, in the middle of the fight, "how did you find me?"

"Remember B got lost in time and kept leaving us clues to try and find him?" Red Robin replied. "That journal had an extra note stuffed in the back of it. It gave the date and place."

"First, how did you know it was about me; and second, have you been sitting on that information for months?"

"Your handwriting, Little Wing," Nightwing drawled. "And no, we didn't actually know all along. It gave instructions on the outside when to open it."

"You always obey instructions? Even on weird notes from the past?"

"I wrote that bit, and I generally trust my own judgement, even when I haven't made it yet," Red Robin explained. He grunted in pain when the butt of a rifle slammed into his stomach. Nightwing flipped and threw one of his cudgels into the head of the offending bandit.

"Fine." Red Hood fluidly re-drew a pistol, half-twisted, and shot the hand of a bandit attempting to retrieve his rifle. "How did you get back here?"

"We…kinda owe Rip Hunter. Again," Nightwing replied.

Bienvenu shook his head. From his position in the shadow of the prison house, he could see the fight without getting in the way. Then he noticed a small boy, a six-year-old child hiding beneath the scaffold. But so did the leader of the bandits. Hood noticed the rifle being raised, and threw himself in the line of fire. "Gold, behind you," he called.

Nightwing, the nearest to the bandit but facing the other way, turned, his cudgel at the ready, and struck the man as the rifle cracked and the bullet spat out. Red Hood cried out as his left shoulder jerked back and a trickle of blood ran down his chest.

It proved to be the only injury the Americans sustained. Within moments, the fight was done, the bandits lying asleep on the ground. As soon as the coast was clear, the little boy's mother rushed forward. She bundled up her son, and looked up at Hood, startled.

"_You saved my boy, monsieur_," she said, surprised.

He shrugged his uninjured shoulder. "_Someone had to_," he replied.

"Yeah, well, let's have a look at that," Nightwing said, pushing Hood into sitting on the platform. He carefully examined the wound. "It's shallow. Probably best if we leave the bullet in there until we get home, that'll limit blood loss."

Hood nodded, pulling his jacket up over the wound. Robin came over. "Which of these pieces of detritus framed you?" he asked Hood.

"That one," he said, gesturing to the leader. Nightwing reached out and grabbed the youngest brother, shaking his head. The boy looked disappointed, but left the man.

"Anyone have any idea how we can get a note from France to America without trying to persuade Professor Hunter to give us another lift?" Red Robin asked, holding a sort of book and a thin sort of stick.

Hood cocked his head and looked round, eventually seeing Bienvenu. He gestured, and the bishop came forward. "_Monseigneur, last night you offered to contact my family. Does that offer still stand?_"

"_My son, I do not understand_," he replied. "_Your family are here_."

"_But we won't be unless someone delivers the message for us_," Red Robin said. He passed the things he was holding to his brother. Hood scribbled something, the stick a pen of some variety, and passed it back. Red Robin tore off the page, folded it twice and wrote the outside. Then he started on a new sheet. "_Can you have this delivered to the Van Derm family? They live in Bristol Bay, near Gotham town_." He finished writing, tearing off the second page, folding it once and slipping the first inside it. "_Please. If the message doesn't arrive, we can't come back to save him, and there will be no-one to fight off those bandits_."

Bienvenu nodded, and took the pages. "_Very well, my sons. I see the message is delivered. And I will clear your name_." He spoke specifically to Hood, the boy who'd shared his deepest fears the previous night and needed to know the truth. "_You've been given another chance, a chance less painfully bought. Do not waste it. You've shown me the good you can do; do not hide it with killing_."

Hood bowed his head. "_I will try, Monseigneur_," he replied. "_I will try_."

There was a scuffle by the prison house. A trio of guards emerged, pointing rifles at the American boys.

"They think they can stop us," Red Robin observed mildly.

"Fools," Robin commented.

"Yup," Hood agreed.

"Ah well," Nightwing sighed. "Come on. Last one to the time sphere buys dinner."

A quick burst of laughter from one or all echoed through the air, and they ran, leaving the guards milling around, one trying to chase, but soon left in the dust.

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Bienvenu went home. He considered the matter at length. Although the strangers had been unforgiving with their foes, they hadn't harmed any of them more than cuts, bruises and concussions. Even the man who shot Hood woke with no more than a bad headache.

But they had flouted the law.

But Hood was innocent.

And life was the Lord's to give; it should be only the Lord's to take away.

Bienvenu sent the messages to America the first chance he got. Although he read them both, he could not make sense of the strange references to bells and a casket marked with a bat. The message was not meant for him. He only knew it would save at least one innocent life.

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The guillotine was repaired. The first man sentenced to die upon it was the leader of the bandits who'd led his followers to disaster. Bienvenu once again shared the condemned's final hours, but this time felt much less sympathy than the other times. He'd seen the man raise a rifle on an innocent child, heard that he'd been willing to let an innocent man die in his place.

Every man was a child of God. Every man deserved to die at the time God appoints. Even the man you despise.

And so, when the blood of the guilty man soaked the scaffold, Bienvenu decided, in memory of the gentle warriors he met one morning by the scaffold, he would appeal for the lifting of the death penalty. Even murder could have a justifiable reason; even a murder could change.

Even a murderer can spare the man how tried to kill him.

As he learned the day Red Hood was condemned to die.


End file.
